Orlando Furioso

CANTO 41

AR­GU­MENT His pris­on­ers to the Child the Dan­ish peer Con­signs, who, home­ward bound, are wrecked at sea; By swim­ming he es­capes, and a sin­cere And faith­ful ser­vant now of Christ is he. Mean­while bold Brandi­mart, and Olivi­er, And Roland fierce­ly charge the hos­tile three. So­bri­no is left wound­ed in the strife; Gradas­so and Agra­mant de­prived of life.

I The odour which well-​fash­ioned bear or hair, Of that which find and dain­ty rai­ment steeps Of gen­tle stripling, or of damsel fair, — Who of­ten love awak­ens, as she weeps — If it ooze forth and scent the am­bi­ent air, And which for many a day its virtue keeps, Well shows, by man­ifest ef­fects and sure, How per­fect was its first per­fume and pure.

II The drink that to his cost good Icarus drew Of yore his sun-​burned sick­le­men to cheer, And which (’tis said) lured Celts and Boi through Our Alpine hills, un­touched by toil whilere, Well shows that cor­dial was the draught, when new; Since it pre­serves its virtue through the year. The tree to which its win­try fo­liage cleaves, Well shows that ver­dant were its spring tide leaves.

III The fa­mous lin­eage, for so many years Of cour­tesy the great and last­ing light, Which ev­er, bright­en­ing as it burns, ap­pears To shine and flame more clear­ly to the sight, Well proves the sire of Este’s no­ble peers Must, amid mor­tals, have shone forth as bright In all fair gifts which raise men to the sky, As the glad sun mid glit­ter­ing orbs on high.

IV As in his ev­ery oth­er feat ex­prest, Rogero’s valiant mind and cour­te­ous lore Were showed by to­kens clear and man­ifest, And his high mind­ed­ness shone more and more; — So to­ward the Dane those virtues stood con­fest, With whom (as I re­hearsed to you be­fore) He had be­lied his mighty strength and breath; For pity loth to put that lord to death.

V The Dan­ish war­rior was well cer­ti­fied, No wish to slay him had the youth­ful knight, Who spared him now, when open was his side; Now, when so wea­ried he no more could smite. When fi­nal­ly he knew, and plain de­scried Rogero scru­pled to put forth his might, If with less vigour and less prowess steeled, At least in cour­tesy he would not yield.

VI “Par­di, sir, make we peace;” (he said) “suc­cess In this con­tention can­not fall to me — Can­not be mine; for I my­self con­fess Con­quered and cap­tive to thy cour­tesy.” To him Rogero an­swered, “And no less I cov­et peace, than ’tis de­sired by thee. But this up­on con­di­tion, that those sev­en Are freed from bondage, and to me are giv­en.”

VII With that he showed those sev­en where­of I spake, Bound and with droop­ing heads, a sad ar­ray; Adding, he must to him no hin­drance make, Who would those kings to Africa con­vey. And Dudon thus al­lowed the Child to take Those sev­en, and him al­lowed to bear away A bark as well; what likes him best he choos­es, Amid those ves­sels, and for Africk loos­es.

VI­II He loos­es bark and sail; and in bold wise Trust­ing the fick­le wind, to sea­ward stood. At first on her due course the ves­sel flies, And fills the pi­lot full of hardi­hood. The beach re­treats, and from the sailors’ eyes So fades, the sea ap­pears a shore­less flood. Up­on the dark­en­ing of the day, the wind Dis­plays its fick­le and per­fid­ious kind.

IX It shifts from poop to beam, from beam to prow, And even there short sea­son doth re­main: The reel­ing ship con­founds the pi­lot; now Struck fore, now aft, now on her beam again. Threat­en­ing the bil­lows rise, with haughty brow, And Nep­tune’s white herd lows above the main. As many deaths ap­pear to daunt that rout, As waves which beat their trou­bled bark about.

X Now blows the wind in front, and now in rear, And drives this wave an-​end, that oth­er back; Oth­ers the reel­ing ves­sel’s side o’er­peer; And ev­ery bil­low threat­ens equal wrack. The pi­lot sighs, con­fused and pale with fear; Vain­ly he calls aloud to shift the tack, To strike or jibe the yard; and with his hand, Signs to the crew the thing he would com­mand.

XI But sound or sig­nal lit­tle boots; the eye Sees not amid the dim and rainy night; The voice un­heard as­cends in­to the sky, — The sky, which with a loud­er larum smite The trou­bled sailors’ uni­ver­sal cry, And roar of wa­ters, which to­geth­er fight. Un­heard is ev­ery hest, above, be­low, Star­board or lar­board, up­on poop or prow.

XII In the strained tack­le sounds a hol­low roar, Where­in the strug­gling wind its fury breaks; The forked light­ning flash­es ev­er­more, With fear­ful thun­der heav­en’s wide con­cave shakes. One to the rud­der runs, one grasps an oar; Each to his sev­er­al of­fice him be­takes. One will make fast, an­oth­er will let go; Wa­ter in­to the wa­ter oth­ers throw.

XI­II Lo! howl­ing hor­ri­bly, the sound­ing blast, Which Bore­as in his sud­den fury blows, Scourges with tat­tered sail the reel­ing mast: Al­most as high as heav­en the wa­ter flows: The oars are bro­ken; and so fell and fast That tem­pest pelts, the prow to lee­ward goes; And the un­governed ves­sel’s bat­tered side Is un­de­fend­ed from the foam­ing tide.

XIV Fall­en on her star­board side, on her beam ends, About to turn keel up­per­most, she lies. Mean­while, his soul to Heav­en each rec­om­mends, Sur­er than sure to sink, with piteous cries. Scathe up­on scathe ma­li­cious For­tune sends, And when one woe is weath­ered, oth­ers rise. O’er­strained, the ves­sel splits; and through her seams In many a part the hos­tile wa­ter streams.

XV A fierce as­sault and cru­el coil doth keep Up­on all sides that win­try tem­pest fell. Now to their sight so high the bil­lows leap, It seems that these to heav­en above would swell; Now, plung­ing with the wave, they sink so deep, That they ap­pear to spy the gulfs of hell. Small hope there is or none: with fault­er­ing breath They gaze up­on in­evitable death.

XVI On a de­spi­teous sea, that live­long night, They drift­ed, as the wind in fury blew. The fu­ri­ous wind that with the dawn­ing light Should have abat­ed, gath­ered force anew. Lo! a bare rock, ahead, ap­pears in sight, Which vain­ly would the wretched band es­chew; Whom to­wards that cliff, in their de­spite, im­pel The rag­ing tem­pest and the roar­ing swell.

XVII Three times and four the pale-​faced pi­lot wrought The tiller with a vig­or­ous push to sway; And for the bark a sur­er pas­sage sought: But the waves snapt and bore the helm away. To low­er, or ease the bel­ly­ing can­vas aught The sailors had no pow­er; nor time had they To mend that ill, or coun­sel what was best; For them too hard the mor­tal per­il prest.

XVI­II Per­ceiv­ing now that noth­ing can de­fend Their bark from wreck on that rude rock and bare, All to their pri­vate aims alone at­tend, And on­ly to pre­serve their life have care. Who quick­est can, in­to the skiff de­scend; But in a thought so over­crowd­ed are, Through those so many who in­vade the boat, That, gun­wale-​deep, she scarce re­mains afloat.

XIX Rogero, on be­hold­ing mas­ter, mate, And men aban­don­ing the ship with speed, In dou­blet, as he is, sans mail and plate, Hopes in the skiff, a refuge in that need: But finds her over­charged with such a weight, And af­ter­wards so many more suc­ceed, That the o’er­whelm­ing wave the pin­nace drown, And she with all her wretched freight goes down;

XX Goes down, and, founder­ing, drags with her whoe’er Leav­ing the larg­er bark, on her re­lies. Then dole­ful shrieks are heard, ‘mid sob and tear, Call­ing for suc­cour on un­pity­ing skies: But for short space that shrilling cry they rear; For, swoln with rage and scorn, the wa­ters rise, And in a mo­ment whol­ly stop the vent Whence is­sues that sad clam­our and lament.

XXI One sinks out­right, no more to reap­pear; Some rise, and bound­ing with the bil­lows go: Their course, with head up­lift­ed, oth­ers steer; An arm, an un­shod leg, those oth­ers show: Rogero, who the tem­pest will not fear, Springs up­ward to the sur­face from be­low; And lit­tle dis­tant sees that rock, in vain Es­chewed by him and his at­ten­dant train.

XXII Him­self with hands and feet the war­rior rows, Hop­ing by force there­of to win the shore; Breast bold­ly the im­por­tu­nate flood, and blows With his un­wea­ried breath the foam be­fore. Wax­ing mean­while, the trou­bled wa­ter rose, And from the rock the aban­doned ves­sel bore; Quit­ted of those un­hap­py men, who die (So curst their lot) the death from which they fly.

XXI­II Alas! for man’s de­ceit­ful thoughts and blind! The ship es­caped from wreck, where hope was none; When mas­ter and when men their charge re­signed, And let the ves­sel with­out guid­ance run. It would ap­pear the wind has changed its mind, On see­ing all that sailed in her are gone; And blows the ves­sel from those shal­lows free, Through bet­ter course, in­to a safer sea.

XXIV She, hav­ing drift­ed wild­ly with her guide, With­out him, made di­rect­ly Africk’s strand, Two or three miles of waste Bis­er­ta wide, Up­on the quar­ter fac­ing Egypt’s land; And, as the sea went down and the wind died, Stood bed­ded in that weary waste of sand. Now thith­er Roland roved, who paced the shore; As I in oth­er strain re­hearsed be­fore;

XXV And will­ing to dis­cov­er if alone, Laden, or light, the strand­ed ves­sel were, He, Olivi­er, and Mon­odantes’ son, Aboard her in a shal­low bark re­pair: Be­neath the hatch­ways they de­scend, but none Of hu­man kind they see; and on­ly there Find good Fron­ti­no, with the tren­chant sword And gal­lant ar­mour of his youth­ful lord;

XXVI Who was so hur­ried in his hasty flight He had not even time to take his sword; To Or­lan­do known; which, Bal­is­ar­do hight, Was his erewhile; the tale’s up­on record, And ye have read it all, as well I wite; How Fa­le­ri­na lost it to that lord, When waste as well her beau­teous bow­ers he laid; And how from him Brunel­lo stole the blade;

XXVII And how be­neath Care­na, on the plain Brunel­lo on Rogero this be­stowed. How match­less was that faul­chion’s edge and grain, To him ex­pe­ri­ence had al­ready showed; I say, Or­lan­do; who was there­fore fain, And to heav­en’s king with grate­ful thanks o’er­flowed; And deemed, and of­ten af­ter­wards so said, Heav­en for such press­ing need had sent the blade:

XXVI­II Such press­ing need, in that he had to fight With the re­doubt­ed king of Ser­icane; And knew that he, be­sides his fear­ful might, Was lord of Ba­yard and of Durin­dane. Not know­ing them, Anglantes’ valiant knight So high­ly rat­ed not the plate and chain As he that these had proved: they val­our were, But val­ued less as good than rich and fair;

XXIX And, for of har­ness he had lit­tle need, Charmed, and against all weapons for­ti­fied, To Olivi­er he left the war­like weed: Not so the sword; which to his waist he tied: To Brandi­mart Or­lan­do gave the steed: Thus equal­ly that spoil would he di­vide With his com­pan­ions twain, in equal share, Who part­ners in that rich dis­cov­ery were.

XXX Against the day of fight, in good­ly gear And new, those war­riors seek their limbs to deck. Bla­zoned up­on Or­lan­do’s shield ap­pear The burn­ing bold and lofty Ba­bel’s wreck. A ly­me-​dog ar­gent bears Sir Olivi­er, Couchant, and with the leash up­on his neck: The mot­to; TILL HE COMES: In gild­ed vest And wor­thy of him­self he will be drest.

XXXI Bold Brandi­mart de­signed up­on the day Of bat­tle, for his roy­al fa­ther’s sake, And his own hon­our, no de­vice more gay Than a dim sur­coat to the field to take. By gen­tle Flordelice for that dark ar­ray, Was wrought the fairest fac­ing she could make. With cost­ly jew­els was the bor­der sown; Sable the vest, and of one piece alone.

XXXII With her own hand the la­dy wrought that vest, Be­com­ing well the finest plate and chain, Where­in the valiant war­rior should be drest, And cloak his cours­er’s croup and chest and mane: But, from that day when she her­self ad­drest Un­to this task, till end­ed was her pain, She showed no sign of glad­ness; nor this while, Nor af­ter, was she ev­er seen to smile.

XXXI­II The heart­felt fear, the tor­ment ev­er­more Of los­ing Brandi­mart the dame pur­sued. She him whilere a hun­dred times and more En­gaged in fierce and fear­ful fight had viewed; Nor ev­er such­like ter­ror hereto­fore Had blanched her cheek and froze her youth­ful blood; And this new sense of fear in­creased her trou­ble, And made the trem­bling la­dy’s heart beat dou­ble.

XXXIV The war­riors to the wind their can­vas rear, When point de­vice the three ac­cou­tred are. Bold San­sonet is left, with Eng­land’s peer, In­trust­ed with the faith­ful army’s care. Flordelice, pricked at heart with cru­el fear, Fill­ing the heav­ens with vow, lament and prayer, As far as they by sight can fol­lowed be, Fol­lows their sails up­on the foam­ing sea.

XXXV Scarce, with much labour, the two cap­tains led Her, gaz­ing on the wa­ters, from the shore, And to the palace drew, where on her bed They left the la­dy, grieved and trem­bling sore. Mean­while up­on their quest those oth­ers sped, Whom mer­cy wind and weath­er sea­ward bore. Their ves­sel made that is­land on the right; The field ap­point­ed for so fell a fight.

XXXVI Or­lan­do dis­em­barks, with his ar­ray, His kins­man Olivi­er and Brandi­mart; Who on the side which fronts the east­ern ray, En­camp them, and not hap­ly with­out art. King Agra­mant ar­rives that very day, And tents him on the con­trary part. But for the sun is sink­ing fast, for­borne Is their en­counter till the fol­low­ing morn.

XXXVII Un­til the skies the dawn­ing light re­ceive, Armed ser­vants keep their watch both there and here. The valiant Brandi­mart re­sorts that eve Thith­er­ward, where their tents the payn­ims rear; And par­leys, by this no­ble lead­er’s leave, With Agra­mant; for they were friends whilere; And, un­der­neath the ban­ner of the Moor, He in­to France had passed from Africk’s shore.

XXXVI­II Af­ter salutes, and join­ing hand with hand, Fair rea­sons, as a friend, the faith­ful knight Pressed on the lead­er of the payn­im band Why he should not the ap­point­ed bat­tle fight; And ev­ery town — re­stored to his com­mand — Lay­ing ‘twixt Nile and Calpe’s rocky height, Vowed he, with Roland’s li­cense, should re­ceive, If up­on Mary’s Son he would be­lieve.

XXXIX He said: “For loved you were, and are by me, This coun­sel give I; that I deem it sane, Since I pur­sue it, you as­sured must be: Ma­hound I hold but as an idol vain; In Je­sus Christ, the liv­ing God I see, And to con­duct you in my way were fain; I’ the way of safe­ty fain would have you move With me and all those oth­ers that I love.

XL “In this con­sists your wel­fare; coun­sel none Save this, in your dis­as­ter, can avail; And, of all coun­sels least, good Mi­lo’s son To meet in com­bat, clad in plate and mail; In that the prof­it, if the field be won, Weighs not against the loss, in equal scale. If you be con­queror, lit­tle gain en­sues, Yet lit­tle loss re­sults not, if you lose.

XLI “Were good Or­lan­do and we oth­ers slain, Band­ed with him to con­quer or to die; Where­fore, through this, ye should your lost do­main Ac­quire anew, for­sooth, I see not, I; Nor is there rea­son hope to en­ter­tain That, if we life­less on the cham­paigne lie, Men should be want­ing in King Charles’s host To guard in Africa his pal­tri­est post.”

XLII Thus Brandi­mart to Afick’s cav­alier; And much would have sub­joined; but, on his side, That knight, with an­gry voice and haughty cheer, The pa­gan in­ter­rupt­ed, and replied: ” `Tis sure temer­ity and mad­ness sheer Moves you and what­so­ev­er wight be­side, That coun­sels mat­ter, be it good or ill, Un­called a coun­sel­lor’s du­ty to ful­fil;

XLI­II “And how to think, from love those coun­sels flow Which once you bore and bear me, as you say, (To speak the very truth) I do not know, Who with Or­lan­do see you here, this day. I ween that, know­ing you are doomed to woe, And marked for the de­vour­ing drag­on’s prey, Ye all mankind would drag to nether hell, In your eter­ni­ty of pains to dwell.

XLIV “If I shall win or lose, re­mount my throne, Or pass my fu­ture days in ex­ile drear, God on­ly knows, whose pur­pose is un­known To me, in turn, or to Anglantes’ peer. Be­fall what may, by me shall nought be done Un­wor­thy of a king, through shame­ful fear. If death must be my cer­tain por­tion, I, Rather than wrong my prince­ly blood, will die.

XLV “Ye may de­part, who, save ye bet­ter play The war­rior, in to-​mor­row’s list­ed fight, Then ye have plaid the em­bas­sador to-​day, In arms will sec­ond ill Anglantes’ knight.” Agra­mant end­ed so his fu­ri­ous say; — His an­gry bo­som boil­ing with de­spite. So said — the war­riors part­ed, to re­pose, Till from the neigh­bour­ing sea the day arose.

XLVI When the first whiten­ing of the dawn was seen, Armed, in a mo­ment leapt on horse­back all; Short par­ley past the puis­sant foes be­tween. There was no stop; there was no in­ter­val; For they have laid in rest their lances keen: But I in­to too foul a fault should fall Meseems, my lord, if, while their deeds I tell I let Rogero per­ish in the swell.

XLVII Cleav­ing the flood with nim­ble hands and feet He swims, amid the hor­rid surges’ roar, On him the threat­en­ing wind and tem­pest beat, But him his ha­rassed con­science vex­es more. Christ’s wrath he fears; and, since in wa­ters sweet (When time and fair oc­ca­sion served of yore) He, in his fol­ly, bap­tism lit­tle prized, Fears in these bit­ter waves to be bap­tized.

XLVI­II Those many promis­es re­mem­bered are Where­by he to his la­dy-​love was tied, Those oaths which sworn to good Ri­nal­do were, And were in nought ful­filled up­on his side. To God, in hope that he would hear and spare, That he re­pent­ed, of­ten­times he cried, And, should he land, and scape that mor­tal scaith, To be a Chris­tian, vowed in heart and faith;

XLIX And ne’er, in suc­cour of the Moor­ish train, With sword or lance, the faith­ful to of­fend; And in­to France, where he to Charle­magne Would ren­der hon­our due, forth­with to wend; Nor Bradamant with idle words again To cheat, but bring his love to hon­est end. A mir­acle it is that, as he vows, He swims more light­ly and his vigour grows.

L His vigour grows; un­wea­ried is his mind; And still his arms from him the bil­low throw, This bil­low fol­lowed fast by that be­hind; Where­of one lifts him high, one sinks him low. Ris­ing and falling, vext by wave and wind, So gains the Child that shore with labour slow; And where the rocky hill slopes sea­ward most, All drenched and drop­ping, climbs the rugged coast.

LI All the oth­ers that had plunged in­to the flood In the end, o’er­whelmed by those wild wa­ters died. Rogero, as to Prov­idence seemed good, Mount­ed the soli­tary islet’s side. When safe up­on the bar­ren rock he stood, A new alarm the stripling ter­ri­fied; To be with­in those nar­row bounds con­fined, And die, with hard­ship and with hunger pined.

LII Yet he with an un­con­quered heart, in­tent To suf­fer what the heav­ens for him or­dained, O’er those hard stones, against that steep as­cent, To­wards the top with feet in­trepid strained; And not a hun­dred yards had gone, when, bent With years, and with long fast and vig­il stained, He wor­thy of much wor­ship one es­pied, In her­mit’s weed, de­scend the moun­tain’s side;

LI­II Who cries, on his ap­proach­ing him, “Saul, Saul, Why per­se­cutest thou my faith­ful seed?” As whilom said the Saviour to Saint Paul, When (blessed stroke!) he smote him from his steed. “Thou thought’st to pass the sea, nor pay with­al; Thought’st to de­fraud the pi­lot of his meed. Thou seest that God has arms to reach and smite, When far­thest off thou deem’st that God of might.”

LIV And he, that holi­est an­choret, pur­sued, To whom the night fore­go­ing God did send A vi­sion, as he slum­bered, and fore­shewed How, thith­er by his aid the Child should wend; Where­in his past and fu­ture life, re­viewed, Were seen, as well as his un­hap­py end; And sons, and grand­sons, and his ev­ery heir, Ful­ly re­vealed to that good her­mit were.

LV That an­choret pur­sues, and does up­braid Rogero first, and com­forts fi­nal­ly: Up­braideth him, be­cause he had de­laid Be­neath that easy yoke to bend the knee; And what he should have done, when whilom prayed And called of Christ — then un­com­pelled and free — Had done with lit­tle grace; nor turned to God Un­til he saw him threat­en­ing with the rod.

LVI Then com­forts him — that Christ aye heav­en al­lows To them, that late or ear­ly heav­en de­sire; And all those labour­ers of the Gospel shows, Paid by the vine­yard’s lord with equal hire. With char­ity and warm de­vo­tion glows, And him in­structs the ven­er­able sire, As to­ward the rocky cell where he re­sides He with weak steps and slow Rogero guides.

LVII Above that hal­lowed cell, on the hill’s brow, A lit­tle church re­ceives the ris­ing day; Com­modi­ous is the fane and fair enow; Thence to the beach de­scends a thick­et gray, Where fer­tile and fruit-​bear­ing palm-​trees blow, Myr­tle, and low­ly ju­niper, and bay, Ev­er­more thread­ed by a limpid foun­tain, Which falls with cease­less mur­mur from the moun­tain.

LVI­II ‘Twas well nigh forty years, since on that stone The good­ly fri­ar had fixed his qui­et seat; Which, there to live a holy life, alone, For him the Saviour chose, as har­bourage meet. Pure wa­ter was his drink, and, plucked from one, Or the oth­er plant, wild berries were his meat; And hearty and ro­bust, of ail­ments clear, The holy man had reached his eight­ieth year.

LIX That her­mit lit a fire, and heaped the board With dif­fer­ent fruits, with­in his small re­pair; Where­with the Child somedeal his strength re­stored, When he had dried his clothes and drip­ping hair. Af­ter, at bet­ter ease, to him God’s word And mys­ter­ies of our faith ex­pound­ed were; And the day fol­low­ing, in his foun­tain clear, That an­choret bap­tized the cav­alier.

LX There dwells the young Rogero, well con­tent With what the rugged so­journ does al­low; In that the fri­ar showed short­ly his in­tent To send him where he fain would turn his prow. Mean­while with him he many an ar­gu­ment Han­dles and of­ten; of God’s king­dom now; Now of things ap­per­tain­ing to his case; Now to Rogero’s blood, a fu­ture race.

LXI The Lord, that ev­ery thing doth see and hear, Had to that holi­est an­choret be­wrayed, How he should not ex­ceed the sev­enth year, Dat­ing from when he was a Chris­tian made; Who for the death of Pin­abel whilere, (His la­dy’s deed, but on Rogero laid) As well as Berto­la­gi’s, should be slain By false Ma­ga­nza’s ill and im­pi­ous train;

LXII And, how that trea­son should be smoth­ered so, No sign there­of should out­ward­ly ap­pear; For where that evil peo­ple dealt the blow, They should en­tomb the youth­ful cav­alier. For this should vengeance fol­low, al­beit slow, Dealt by his con­sort and his sis­ter dear; And how he by his wife should long be sought, With weary womb, with heavy bur­den fraught,

LXI­II ‘Twixt Brenta and Athe­sis, be­neath those hills (Which erst the good An­tenor so con­tent­ed, With their sul­phure­ous veins and liq­uid rills, And mead, and field, with fur­rows glad in­dent­ed, That he for these left pools which Xan­thus fills; And Ida, and As­ca­nius long lament­ed,) Till she a child should in the forests bear, Which lit­tle dis­tant from At­este are;

LX­IV And how the Child, in might and beau­ty grown, That, like his sire, Rogero shall be hight, Those Tro­jans, as of Tro­jan lin­eage known, Shall for their lord elect with solemn rite; Who next by Charles (in suc­cour of whose crown Against the Lom­bards shall the stripling fight) Of that fair land do­min­ion shall ob­tain, And the hon­oured ti­tle of a mar­quis gain;

LXV And be­cause Charles shall say in Latin `Este’, (That is — be lords of the do­min­ion round!) En­ti­tled in a fu­ture sea­son Este Shall with good omen be that beau­teous ground; And thus its an­cient ti­tle of At­este Shall of its two first let­ters lose the sound. God al­so to his ser­vant had fore­said The vengeance tak­en for Rogero’s dead;

LXVI Who shall, in vi­sion, to his con­sort true Ap­pear somedeal be­fore the dawn of day; And shall re­late how him the traitor slew, And where his body lies to her shall say. She and Marphisa hence, those valiant two, With fire and sword on earth shall Poic­tiers lay; Nor shall his son, when of be­fit­ting age, Less harm Ma­ga­nza in his mighty rage.

LXVII On Azos, Al­berts, Obysons, did dwell That her­mit hoar, and on their off­spring bright; Or Bor­so, Nicholas, and Leonel, Alphon­so, Her­cules, and Hip­poly­te, And. last of those, the gen­tle Is­abel; Then curbs his tongue and will no more re­cite. He to Rogero what is fit re­veals, And what is fit­ting to con­ceal, con­ceals.

LXVI­II Mean­while Or­lan­do and bold Brandi­mart, With that good knight, the Mar­quis Olivi­er, Against the payn­im Mars to­geth­er start; (Name well be­fit­ting Ser­icana’s peer) And the oth­er two — that from the ad­verse part, At more than a foot-​pace their cours­ers steer; I say King Agra­mant and King So­brine: The peb­bly beach re­sounds, and rolling brine.

LX­IX When they en­counter in mid field, pell-​mell, And to the sky flew ev­ery shiv­ered lance, At that loud noise, the sea was seen to swell, At that loud noise, which echoed even to France. Gradas­so and Roland met as it be­fel; And fair­ly bal­anced might ap­pear the chance, But for the van­tage of Ri­nal­do’s horse; Which made Gradas­so seem of greater force.

LXX Ba­iar­do shocked the steed of less­er might, Backed by Or­lan­do, with such might and main, He made that cours­er stag­ger, left and right, And mea­sure next his length up­on the plain: Vain­ly to raise him strove Anglantes’ knight, Thrice, nay four times, with row­els and with rein; Balked of his end, he lights up­on the field, Draws Bal­is­ar­da, and up­lifts his shield.

LXXI With Agra­mant en­coun­ters Olivi­er, Who, fit­ly matched, their foam­ing cours­ers gall. Bold Brandi­mart un­horsed in the ca­reer So­bri­no; but it was not plain with­al If ’twas the fault of horse or cav­alier; For sel­dom good So­bri­no used to fall. Was it his cours­er’s or his own mis­deed, So­bri­no found him­self with­out a steed.

LXXII Now Brandi­mart, that up­on earth de­scried The king So­brine, as­sailed no more his man; But at Gradas­so, who Anglantes’ pride Had equal­ly un­horsed, in fury ran. On Agra­mant and Oliviero’s side, Mean­while the war­fare stood as it be­gan: When bro­ken on their buck­lers were the spears, With swords en­coun­tered the re­turn­ing peers.

LXXI­II Roland who saw Gradas­so in such guise, As showed that to re­turn he lit­tle cared, — Nor can re­turn; so Brandi­mart aye plies, And press­es Ser­icana’s monarch hard, Turns round, and, like him­self, afoot de­scries So­bri­no, in the doubt­ful strife un­paired: At him he sprang; and, at his haughty look, Heav­en, as the war­rior trod, in ter­ror shook.

LXXIV Fore­see­ing the as­sault with wary eye, Pre­pared, and at close ward, be­hold the Moor! As pi­lot against whom, now crest­ing nigh, The threat­en­ing bil­low comes with hol­low roar, To­wards it turns his prow, and, when so high He views the sea, would glad­ly be ashore. So­bri­no rears his buck­ler, to with­stand The fu­ri­ous fall of Fa­le­ri­na’s brand.

LXXV Of such fine steel was Bal­is­ar­da’s blade, That arms against it lit­tle shel­ter were; And by a per­son of such puis­sance swayed, By Roland, singe in the world or rare, It splits the shield, and is in no­wise stayed, Though bound about with steel the edges are: It splits the shield, and to the bot­tom rends, And on the shoul­der un­der­neath de­scends.

LXXVI Up­on the shoul­der; nor, though twist­ed chain And dou­ble plates en­case the payn­im foe, These hin­der much that sword of stub­born grain From open­ing wide the part­ed flesh be­low. So­bri­no at Or­lan­do smites; but vain Against the valiant count is ev­ery blow; To whom, for spe­cial grace, the King of heav­en A body charmed against all arms had giv­en.

LXXVII The val­or­ous count, re­dou­bling still his blows, Thought from the trunk the monarch’s head to smite. So­bri­no, who the strength of Cler­mont knows, And how the shield ill boots, re­tired from fight, Yet not so far, but that up­on his brows Fell the dread faul­chion of Anglantes’ knight: ‘Twas on its flat, but such his might and main, It crushed the helm and stu­pe­fied the brain.

LXXVI­II Stunned by that fu­ri­ous stroke, he pressed the shore, And it was long ere he again did rise. The pal­adin be­lieves the war­fare o’er, And that de­prived of life So­bri­no lies; And, lest Gradas­so to ill pass and sore Should bring Sir Brandi­mart, at him he flies: For him the payn­im over­matched in horse, In arms and faul­chion, and per­haps in force.

LXXIX Bold Brandi­mart, who guides Fron­ti­no’s rein, The good­ly cours­er, erst Rogero’s steed, So well con­tends with him of Ser­icane, The king yet lit­tle seems his foe to ex­ceed; Who, if he had as tem­pered plate and chain As that bold payn­im lord, would bet­ter speed; But (for he felt him­self ill-​armed) the knight Of­ten gave ground, and tra­versed left and right.

LXXX Bet­ter than good Fron­ti­no horse is none To obey up­on a sign the cav­alier; ‘Twould seem that cours­er had the sense to shun Sharp Durin­dana’s fall, now there now here. Mean­while else­where is hor­rid bat­tle done By roy­al Agra­mant and Olivi­er; Who may be deemed well matched in war­like sleight, Nor cham­pi­ons dif­fer­ing much in mar­tial might.

LXXXI Or­lan­do had left So­bri­no (as I said) On earth, and against Ser­icana’s pride, De­sirous valiant Brandi­mart to aid, Even as he was, afoot, in fury hied: When, prompt to as­sail Gradas­so with the blade, He, loose and walk­ing in mid field, es­pied The good­ly horse, which had So­bri­no thrown; And bowned him straight to make the steed his own.

LXXXII He seized the horse (for none the deed gain­said) And took a leap, and vault­ed on his prize. This hand the bri­dle grasped, and that the blade. Or­lan­do’s mo­tions good Gradas­so spies; Nor at his com­ing is the king dis­maid; Who by his name the pal­adin de­fies: With him, and both his part­ners in the fight, He hopes to make it dark be­fore ’tis night.

LXXXI­II Leav­ing his foe, he, fac­ing Bra­va’s lord, Thrust at the col­lar of his shirt of mail, All else be­side the flesh the faul­chion bored; To pierce through which would ev­ery labour fail. At the same time de­scends Or­lan­do’s sword, (Where Bal­is­ar­da bites no spells avail) Shears hel­met, cuirass, shield, and all be­low, And cleaves whate’er it rakes with head­long blow;

LXXXIV And in face, bo­som, and in thigh it seamed, Be­neath his mail, the king of Ser­icane. From whom his blood till how had nev­er streamed Since he that ar­mour wore; new rage and pain There­at the war­rior felt, and strange it seemed Sword cut so now, nor yet was Durin­dane. Had Roland struck more home, or near­er been, From head to bel­ly he had cleft him clean.

LXXXV No more in arms can trust the cav­alier As hereto­fore; for proved those arms have been: He with more care, more cau­tion than whilere, Pre­pares to par­ry with the faul­chion keen. When en­tered Brandi­mart sees Bra­va’s peer, Who snatched that bat­tle from him, he be­tween Those oth­er con­flicts placed him­self, that where It most was need­ed, he might suc­cour bear.

LXXXVI While so the fight is bal­anced ‘mid those foes, So­bri­no, that on earth long time had lain, When to him­self he was re­turned, up­rose, In face and shoul­der suf­fer­ing grievous pain. He lifts his face, his eyes about him throws; And thith­er, where more dis­tant on the plain He sees his lead­er, with long paces steers So stealthi­ly, that none his com­ing hears;

LXXXVII He on the Mar­quis came, who had but eyes For Agra­mant, and in the war­rior’s rear, Wound­ed up­on the hocks in such fierce wise The cours­er of un­heed­ing Olivi­er, That he falls head­long; and be­neath him lies His valiant mas­ter, nor his foot can clear; His left foot, which in that un­thought for woe, Was in the stir­rup jammed, his steed be­low.

LXXXVI­II Sor­bine pur­sued, and with back-​hand­ed blow Thought he his head should from his neck have shorn; But this for­bids that ar­mour, bright of show, By Vul­can ham­mered, and by Hec­tor worn. Brandi­mart sees his risque, and at the foe Is by his steed, with flow­ing bri­dle, borne. So­bri­no on the head he smote and flung; But straight from earth that fierce old man up­sprung;

LXXXIX And turned anew to Olivi­er, to speed The war­rior’s soul more prompt­ly on its way; Or at the least that baron to im­pede. And him be­neath his cours­er keep at bay: Bold Olivi­er, whose bet­ter arm was freed, And with his sword could fend him as he lay, Mean­while so smites and longes, there and here, That at sword’s length he holds the an­cient peer.

XC He hopes, if him but lit­tle he with­stood, He shall be straight de­liv­ered from that pain: He sees him whol­ly strained and wet with blood, And that he spills so much from open vein, ‘Twould seem he speed­ily must be sub­dued, So weak he hard­ly can him­self sus­tain. Of­ten and oft to rise the Mar­quis strove, Yet could not from be­neath his cours­er move.

XCI Brandi­mart has found out the roy­al Moor, And storms about that payn­im cav­alier; Up­on Fron­ti­no, like a lathe, be­fore, Be­side, or whirling in the war­rior’s rear. A good­ly horse the Chris­tian cham­pi­on bore; Nor worse the south­ern king’s in the ca­reer: That Brigli­ador, Rogero’s gift he crost, Erewhile, by haughty Man­dri­car­do lost.

XCII Great van­tage has he, on an­oth­er part: Of proof and per­fect is his iron weed. His at a ven­ture took Sir Brandi­mart, As he could have in haste in such­like need; But hopes (his anger puts him so in heart) To change it for a bet­ter coat with speech; Al­beit the Moor­ish king, with bit­ter blow, Has made the blood from his right should flow.

XCI­II Him in the flank Gradas­so too had gored; (Nor this was laugh­ing mat­ter) so had scanned His van­tage that re­doubt­ed payn­im lord, He found a place where­in to plant his brand; He broke the war­rior’s shield, his left arm bored, And touched him slight­ly in the bet­ter hand. But this was play, was pas­time (might be said), With Roland’s and Gradas­so’s bat­tle weighed.

XCIV Gradas­so has Or­lan­do half dis­armed; Atop and on both sides his helm has broke: Fall­en is his shield, his cuirass split; but harmed The war­rior is not by the fu­ri­ous stroke, Which opened plate and mail; for he is charmed; And wors­er vengeance on the king has wroke, In face, throat, breast has gored that cav­alier, Be­side the wounds where­of I spake whilere.

XCV Gradas­so, des­per­ate when he de­scried Him­self all wet, and smeared with san­guine dye, And Roland, all from head to foot es­pied, Af­ter such mighty strokes un­stained and dry, Think­ing head, breast, and bel­ly to di­vide, With both his hands up­heaved his sword on high; And, even as he de­vised, up­on the front, Smote with mid blade Anglantes’ haughty count.

XCVI And would by any oth­er so have done; — Would to the sad­dle-​tree have cleft him clean: But the good sword, as if it fell up­on Its flat, re­bounds again, un­stained and sheen. The fu­ri­ous stroke as­tound­ed Mi­lo’s son By whom some scat­tered stars on earth were seen. He drops the bri­dle and would drop the brand, But that a chain se­cures it to his hand.

XCVII So by the noise was scared the horse that bore Up­on his back Anglantes’ cav­alier. The cours­er scow­ered about the pow­dery shore, Show­ing how good his speed in the ca­reer: The Coun­ty by that stroke as­tound­ed sore, Has not the pow­er the fright­ened horse to steer. Gradas­so fol­lows and will reach him, so That he but lit­tle more pur­sues the foe;

XCVI­II But turn­ing round, be­holds the roy­al Moor To the ut­most per­il in that bat­tle brought; For by the shin­ing hel­met which he wore, With the left hand, him Brandi­mart had caught; Al­ready had un­laced the casque be­fore, And with his dag­ger would new ill have wrought: Nor much de­fence could make the Moor­ish lord; For Brandi­mart as well had reft his sword.

XCIX Gradas­so turned, nor more Or­lan­do sought, But has­tened where he Agra­mant es­pied: The in­cau­tious Brandi­mart, sus­pect­ing nought Or­lan­do would have let him turn aside, Had not Gradas­so in his eyes or thought, And to the payn­im’s throat his knife ap­plied. Gradas­so came, and at his hel­met layed, Wield­ing with ei­ther hand his tren­chant blade.

C Fa­ther of heav­en! ‘mid spir­its cho­sen by thee, To him thy mar­tyr true, a place ac­cord; Who, hav­ing tra­versed his tem­pes­tu­ous sea, Now furls his sails in port. Ah! ruth­less sword, So cru­el, Durin­dana, can’st thou be, To good Or­lan­do, to thine an­cient lord, That thou can’st slaugh­ter, in the war­rior’s view, Of all his friends the dear­est and most true?

CI An iron ring that girt his hel­met round, Two inch­es thick, was broke by that fell blow And cleft; and with the sol­id iron bound, Was part­ed the good cap of steel be­low, Bold Brandi­mart, re­versed up­on the ground, With hag­gard face be­side his horse lies low; And is­su­ing wide­ly from the war­rior’s head A stream of life-​blood dyes the shin­gle red.

CII Come to him­self, the Coun­ty turns his eye And sees his Brandi­mart up­on the plain, And in such act Gradas­so stand­ing by As clear­ly shows by whom the knight was slain. If he most raged or grieved I know not, I, But such short time is left him to com­plain, His hasty wrath breaks forth, his grief gives way; But now ’tis time that I sus­pend my lay.